Like all women who happen to find themselves single and not yet older and wiser have accepted and given into Tinder. Yes you read that right…Tinder. As with all of us sometimes the single girl grows bored. She grows tired of the nights in alone with her cat and a glass of wine. She grows tired of her friends telling her the right man will find you. She grows tired of spending her money on clothes and having no dates to wear them on. But most of all she grows tired of herself. This is not because she doesn’t enjoy her own company, on the contrary, a single girl knows herself better than anyone. She knows how to be alone and how to smile without even doing a thing. However despite all this a girl will inevitably find herself wanting a date, wanting to speak with someone new over a cup of coffee or glass of wine. And so a 21st century girl has no other choice but to either ask a friend to set her up (please I’d rather die alone), troll some bar in search of a decent man (because that exists in a bar on a Friday night), attempt a perfect meeting worthy of a scene from a romantic novel at a cafe or train ride, or the more realistic use of the dreaded Tinder account you created while drunk with friends.
And so it begins, the swiping left and right of the men in your area. The monotonously boring opening lines of men who aren’t worthy of your time and humour. And despite your witty yet suggestive bio line you’re still attracting men without any sense of humour or good taste. Because deep down you know every man always swipes right. And yet you continue on through the jungle of unworthy men, until you reach the man who if you saw at a bar or cafe you would fantasise about a life with. The man is handsome, tall, unshaven (fashionably so), and above all wearing a suit in his picture but not in an overt or show offish kind of way. His opening line is perfect, as are his questions that follow. Before you know it you’re meeting him for coffee, the conversation is ongoing and flowing like an effortless scene from one of those French movies you saw on late night TV. It doesn’t take long to fall into bed, because let’s face it why else did you set up Tinder? The sex is perfect, in the way that only strangers can make it. He makes you tingle in all the right places. Somehow your rhythms are in sync, despite the fact you don’t even know his parents names or where he went to school or whether he’s broken a bone. Within weeks you’re meeting regularly for what can only be described as some of the best sex you’ve ever experienced. The act is easy and without pressure. You actually enjoy walking around his house naked. You’re late night rendezvous’ are never sleazy, yet somehow you feel like a high priced call girl or Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. And without warning it’s been just over a month and all of a sudden you’re enjoying the harmless pillow talk. You’re enjoying speaking with him. You get those butterflies in the pit of your stomach when you’re driving to see him. And as if on cue he becomes the invisible man. At first you don’t think anything of it. He has a life after all and you’re not actually dating him, you’re having sex with him there’s a distinct difference. However after a week of silence you send a witty, yet suggestive message hoping to get his attention. The one word response makes you’re heart melt a little and your stomach fall out your ass. However after yet another week passes with no word from him you begin to find yourself not thinking about him much. And when you’re friends ask if you’ve seen him you merely respond, ‘It’s passed it’s time now’.
Somehow through all that great sex and charming conversation you’ve found yourself abandoned with no word as to why. However this time you don’t get angry or upset. You don’t drink your sorrows away or give any care to the matter. You didn’t even whine to your friends when he left without a word. Instead you moved on, thinking back on the experience with a faint smile which no one will understand. Late at night or during a boring meeting you’ll maybe daydream about the time you had sex in his car or the time you christened his new house. However that’s all he becomes. A faint memory by which you’ll enjoy in quiet reverie, never explaining to anyone why you’re smiling or what happened to him. You’ll shrug with a scoff and drink the rest of your wine before steering the conversation towards a more bland topic. Because deep down you know you’ve gown up. Some time between 19 and 24 you grew up enough to realise that sex is sex and love is love and the two are not always combined, nor should they be. At some moment you became a woman able to have a lover without needing to justify it or make it something it wasn’t. Because sometimes sex is great even when you barely know the person touching you.
And that is my most important lesson I taught myself without ever meaning to.